


128 Yew Tree Drive

by Weconqueratdawn



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1950s!Graves, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Anxiety, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Heals, Domestic, Falling In Love, Haunted Houses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Living Together, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Not Canon Compliant - Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, POV Credence Barebone, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Romance, Smoking, Tearjerker, ghost!Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-19 17:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12414321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: Credence finally has a safe place to call his own and is beginning to pick up the pieces of his life. But when the house's former inhabitant appears unexpectedly, it seems he might find more than just much-needed stability under its roof...An accidental romantic weepie, written for the #gradencetrickortreat prompt fest 2017MCD refers to Graves being, er, a ghost :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for trick 17 - thanks to @soughs for a really great prompt:
> 
> _Prompt: Modern AU. Credence moves into a house in the province (with or w/o his family). He likes how peaceful the place is, but something seems to be off about the yew tree outside his window. Step by step, through old letters and photographs and some research in the local library, he gets to know the story of the man who lived there before. The day he finds out the name of the previous house owner, Percival’s ghost appears in his room. They fall for each other even though they both know it’s an impossible love._
> 
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> 
> Warnings and triggers:
> 
> A few sticky subjects are touched upon, so please use your own judgement:
> 
> Mention of suicide  
> Anxiety  
> Panic attacks (including a description of one)  
> Implied dissociation/depersonalisation  
> Referenced past child abuse/sexual abuse  
> Some mild internalised homophobia
> 
> Also, in case it wasn't clear from the tags, you're going to need a few tissues handy for this one (I'm sorry) :0

Under Credence’s bed, a locked box lived. A briefcase, really; sturdy and silver-clasped, the black leather soft and flaky with age. He got it from a thrift store not long after moving again, into the second place he’d ever been able to call his own. The era was probably all wrong - the label had only supplied him with _vintage briefcase $25_ \- but it had seemed too appropriate to pass up.

Of course, the first place which felt like home hadn’t really been his; not in the way the places that came later were.

A whole house to himself, he’d thought, walking round in a daze. A large tiled entryway with a cloakroom, then four bedrooms upstairs. A kitchen and separate dining room, a sitting room, and a study. Outside was a large garden which once must have been laid out in little lawns and flowers beds. Now, it was one swathe of rough grass, shaded all round by tall trees and hedges. Close to the house was a smallish yew, and beside it a rickety bench.

The quiet was incredible, and of a type he was not accustomed to. Soft and yielding; the silence of peaceful solitude. It carried no threats, no waiting dangers, no sudden eruptions of violence. He read much, settled cosily into a chair, until his very heart was soothed into a new rhythm, one which matched the dust motes settling onto the burnished oak floors.

*

Each morning, Credence pulled on his jacket and walked the twenty minutes to the grocery store. It had been Tina’s suggestion to create a routine and stick to it, one which involved leaving the house if at all possible. Since meeting her, he followed her advice as best he could.

There he would buy whatever essentials were needed - bread, milk, cereal - and something for dinner. One day at a time was how he kept going; how he’d kept going for so long. Maybe one day the future would not be such an arduous prospect, but at least now he could be content with his present.

The walk back was his favourite part - the feel of returning safely home gave deeper interest to the sights of the neighbourhood. The houses were all a similar type to the street on which he lived - lawns rose gently from the road, up to where porches and eaves protruded protectively. Everything was hushed and still, except for the dry rustle of leaves withering on the trees and hedges.

He met almost no one. Earlier, cars had rolled slowly down the sloping streets and wouldn’t come back until evening. Occasionally, a jogger sped past, earbuds in and eyes fixed firmly in front. Even if there had been anyone to spare him a glance, nobody would have. It wasn’t that kind of neighbourhood. 

Three faded numbers painted on the mailbox welcomed him back. They were repeated more discreetly on the porch door, just under the paned window. _One-Two-Eight._

Inside, the welcome continued. There was the same hairline crack in the floor tile at the bottom of the stairs, and there was the creaky floorboard which sagged just so in the dining room. Such small things, like the house had nodded him a cordial greeting and he had returned it in kind.

This morning, there was something different. Nothing to cause him alarm, though - just a simple oversight on his part. A lamp had been left on, next to the armchair by the sitting room fireplace.

Credence switched it off, and went to boil the kettle for tea.

*

The next day, he came home to find the same lamp lit again. Only a coincidence, surely, but enough to make him pause and take stock of the room.

Everything else seemed to be as he’d left it. Credence strained his memory; he had sat there last night after dinner, to read. As night had begun its slow fall, the lamplight had grown brighter until the armchair had been a brilliant island in the velvet-dark room. Later, he’d taken his book up to bed with him; he distinctly remembered the sharp _click_ of the switch when he’d turned off the lamp. He remembered, too, thinking how strange it was to be unafraid of the dark.

He studied the lamp; it was weighted by a cast-iron base, standing tall over the armchair with an angled head for reading. He followed its braided cloth cord back to the socket and found the plug was new. The Foundation would be careful about electrical safety standards, he supposed. They would check their properties regularly; there would be codes of practice and things like that. This lamp looked like it had been tested recently, found wanting and the plug changed.

But perhaps the switch was faulty? He flicked it off, then back on again. The light followed suit.

He scratched his head, and shrugged. Maybe the switch really was faulty but it seemed safe enough. And the lamp had been there long before Credence had arrived, and would remain long after he left. If it wanted to turn itself on at odd times, who was he to complain?

“Though,” he said aloud, “I don’t know why you want to be on now, on such a sunny day. I could understand if it was dark and rainy.”

Naturally, the lamp didn’t answer. Credence allowed himself a small smile, and turned his thoughts to lunch.

*

According to his new habits, after lunch he read his mail carefully. There were two today - one to be signed and returned, and the other informing him of an appointment date. He added a note to the list he’d prepared for Tina’s next visit, and put both his notebook and the letters away in the study.

The study was at the back of the house, overlooking the garden from a casement window. Underneath it was a handsome desk, with sleek drawers and a matching chair. A few dark bookshelves, filled with an eccentric collection of books, completed the picture. Once upon a time, it would have been a very beautiful place to work - the kind he thought an important novel should be written in. Credence was sorry he couldn’t offer it more than stray details of his own sad little story.

The day was sunny still, so he decided to try reading outside. Fresh air and sunlight were supposed to do a person good, and sounded very much like something Tina would recommend.

He was halfway up the stairs before remembering his book was on the breakfast table. Reading in the mornings was a new indulgence, and one he was careful not to let disrupt his routine. He’d struggled with that, at first. Without imposed rules, he’d felt lost, then rebellious, then lost again. _Stability_ , Tina had said, many times. _Stability and safety, then we work on building you up again. It’ll happen quicker than you can imagine, if we get that first part right._

None of the things he did for himself felt natural, yet; every choice he made seemed exaggerated, a pantomime of self-care. Tina had explained that was because he’d never learned it, and would in time. He was to treat his body as if it were a small child - feed it when it was hungry, and let it rest when it was tired. He’d found it was hard work to remember this; having a routine helped.

His book was on the table. He collected both it and a blanket he’d left hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. But, on his way out, he stopped short. The kitchen was directly opposite the sitting room. Both doors stood open, and between them were the black-and-white chequered tiles of the entryway.

Credence waited a moment, to make sure what he was seeing. Or not seeing.

The lamp was no longer lit. It had answered him, after all. 

*

The grass in the yard was unkempt, something which he knew was not as desirable as a neatly-clipped lawn, but Credence thought he preferred it that way. The wind had ruffled it like a thick shaggy rug, one increasingly strewn with rust-coloured leaves. It looked a little wild, and quite a bit friendly.

The blanket made the bench more comfortable and kept away the bite in the air. There was fresh breeze too, which jostled the yew needles and stirred his hair. It was pleasant, with the sun still ripe in the cold blue sky, but it was restless weather for reading.

Credence found if held stubbornly onto his book, and kept his eyes fixed to its page, it was an aid to thought, rather than a hindrance. If he lowered it, and put it aside, he would see the house rising before him, and his mind would wander in greater circles than he could manage.

It was the lamp which called to him and about which he wanted to think. The lamp next to the armchair next to the fire. A congenial spot, one devised to suit certain activities and tastes. He himself had been drawn to it, for reading away the long evenings, or when dark thoughts accosted him and going out was an impossibility. It had personality, Credence thought, but not a unique one within the house. There were other echoes - the desk in the study, the clawfoot bathtub, an old radio in the bedroom... 

Drifting into his thoughts came a smell like far-away smoke. Credence shut his book and stretched, sniffing the air. An early bonfire, most likely. The leaves had been falling for a couple of weeks.

The scent followed him into the house, clinging both to his sweater and the blanket. That night he read in the armchair as usual, absorbed in his book and untroubled by anything else. 

*

Tina visited punctually the next afternoon. The weather was still fine and clear, so they sat outside by the yew to talk. They went through Credence’s letters and Tina made arrangements to accompany him to his appointment. She asked how his week had gone and he answered as honestly as he could: he had good days and he had bad days. They again discussed the frequency of his nightmares and whether he should reconsider medication for his anxiety. As before, Credence had shaken his head. It was too early, he’d said. He wanted to try without for now; to see what life was like on his own terms, now he had the space to think and feel without outside influence.

Business concluded, he made her tea and they drank it together in the kitchen. She liked to stay and talk to him afterwards, to remind him about the other things in life. Friends and family; normal things, which she promised waited in his future.

She told him about her sister, and about how they’d both grown up in care too. How she knew they’d been lucky to stay together, in good foster homes run by kind and caring people. He sensed she wanted him to know the world contained more good than bad, and Credence really did want to believe her.

Just before she left, Credence noticed a familiar dim glow spilling out from the sitting room. Dusk was falling, and so was a little rain, pattering softly against the window panes. _I don’t know why you need to be on now, on such a sunny day_ , he remembered himself saying, to an empty room. _I could understand if it was dark and rainy_.

With someone else in the house, someone sensible and steady, Credence was struck by a new fear. It had not occurred to him before, that this could be a distraction his mind had provided him with. That perhaps the lamp had not done any of the things he believed; that it hadn’t turned itself on while they had talked in the kitchen, when the shadows had begun to lengthen and the rain had begun to spot. That it was perhaps, at this moment, not even on at all.

He froze for an instant; Tina was putting on her coat in the cloakroom, and did not see. He ducked swiftly back into the kitchen, and called out to her as calmly as he could.

“Tina,” he said, running the faucet, as if he was busy at the sink. “Could you check if the lamp is on in the sitting room? I can’t remember if I switched it off.”

He heard her boots on the tiles. They stopped just beyond the kitchen door; there was a pause, then her head appeared round the corner of the frame.

“It wasn’t on before, but it is now,” she said. From the corner of his eye Credence saw her watching him with concern. “Is everything okay?”

He turned to face her, relieved and oddly comforted. “Yes,” he said, realising how much he meant it. “I feel safer when it’s on, you see.”

*

The weather was growing steadily colder. Credence’s fingers had grown numb on the walk back from the store and they fumbled the key to the mailbox. Today, unusually, it was empty. He would have to get some gloves soon, he thought, if he couldn’t find any to borrow. There was an old chest in the cloakroom, full of woolly hats and scarves left behind by previous tenants. He would look when he got inside.

The crack in the entryway tile greeted him as usual. Credence smiled fondly at it and took off his jacket, which he hung in the cloakroom. He opened in the chest; inside was a mass of tangled winter clothing. He would take an armful or two into the dining room and sort through it there while he drank his tea; it would be an hour’s useful occupation.

The dining room was just across the entryway from the cloakroom. Credence fumbled for the door handle and dropped his pile onto the dining table. It released a cloud of dust, and made him sneeze.

On the table, arranged like it was waiting for him, was his mail. Three envelopes, two brown and one white, laid out in a neat triangle. Each one read: _Mr Credence Barebone, 128 Yew Tree Drive_.

His heart seized like a great hand had grabbed hold of it. He stumbled back, away from the table and crashed into the wall. Fierce buzzing static filled his mind, and then his body; his face was wet with tears before he even had a coherent thought.

_There was someone in the house._

That was his first, and the one which accompanied the beginning struggle for breath. His chest got tighter and tighter, until he began to fear his ribs would be crushed and his heart would stop. His fingers scrabbled uselessly over the wall behind him.

_He was not safe. He would not be safe anywhere, ever._

The house seemed unnaturally quiet, and his breathing loud. If there was someone inside, he would be easy to find. He must get outside, onto the street. Worse things happened when you were alone, with no one to see. 

He’d slid to the floor; all he could see were table legs and chairs, and through them, the open arch into the kitchen. All was still, and silent. 

Credence shoved himself to his knees, and used a chair to drag himself upright. His legs shook but he could stand; and if he could stand, he could walk. The front door was maybe only a dozen steps away. He could do it. 

The dining room door hung open still. He leant on the frame for support, and looked carefully out, deeper into the house. All he could see were the bottom of the stairs, beyond that the way out into the yard, and the open sitting room door. The study and the kitchen were both hidden from view.

In the other direction were his keys, hanging on the wall, and the front door. He was so close; he just had to be brave. Once he was outside, he’d be able to breathe and would know what to do.

He listened hard. There were no signs of life; no tell-tale creaks and shifts, no concealed footsteps. No quiet, controlled breathing.

_Maybe he’s upstairs._

The thought chilled him more utterly than anything else had. His fear was like a sickness; he had to fight it, and get out. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, and prepared to push himself into a run.

Before he could, from the sitting room came a flicker of light. And then another. And another.

Credence clung to the wall, and stared. It must be the lamp. It must be. No one else could possibly know about its strange behaviour. But what could it mean?

The lamp flickered one more time, then came on and stayed on. He waited and waited, and nothing moved. Everything was as quiet as it always was.

He thought wildly about the letters on the table, and about there being someone in the house. And then he knew - was suddenly certain - there was no reason to be afraid.

He took a step towards the sitting room. The light continued to shine out onto the tile floor. The silence continued unbroken.

He stumbled the rest of the way to the sitting room door. Inside, the armchair was illuminated softly and his book lay open on its seat. The room was empty. As he got closer, he saw the book was open on the same page he’d left off at that morning, when he’d put it aside. On the breakfast table.

Credence slumped over the chair back. He understood, now. This was a request, an instruction. Possibly even an apology.

He nodded to himself, to the hint of rich smoke hanging in the air, sat down obediently and began to read.

*

Credence read and read. He read so much that, when hunger intruded forcefully enough that it could no longer be ignored, it was like waking from a dream.

He had no clue what time it was - the sky had been cloud-filled and the daylight had the same grey tint it had carried that morning. It could be time for dinner, or not yet lunch.

His shoulder felt bruised, from where he’d slammed into the wall. He rubbed it absently, while thinking. The atmosphere in the house was the same - there were no cold chills, or desolate sounds emanating from the basement. But that there was a something present besides himself could not be avoided; a something which had addressed him personally. The question was: what should he do about it?

Should he respond? Would that in some way encourage it? Was that wise?

Should he find a priest?

No - a shudder ran through him at the idea. He couldn’t, not yet. He would have to be alone with him, and- No, that was impossible.

He could confide in Tina, perhaps. She might be able to advise him. If he could get her to believe him, that was. She was very sympathetic, but more likely to arrange extra appointments with his therapist. He could see her expression as he tried to explain - the way her brows would draw in and the corners of her mouth would pull down, her head tilted in concern. If she were to witness it herself, then that might be different.

_Unnatural_ , he heard his Ma say, out of nowhere. _Like attracts like._ He corrected himself firmly: she never had been and never would be anyone’s Ma ever again, not if he stayed strong and did what was needed.

His stomach growled loudly: food. He needed to eat. Deciding what to do would be easier with food inside him. He went to the kitchen, very slowly for he felt rather dizzy. He poured himself a bowl of cereal, and went back to the armchair. He hoped that was permissible, and that the whatever-it-was would not mind him eating there.

Spoon by careful spoon, he cleared the bowl. When he set it aside, a resolution came to him fully-formed. He couldn’t know the best way to act until he knew more, so that’s what he would do: get more information.

Mind settled, he picked up his book, and started to read once again.

*

The next day, instead of walking to the grocery store, he took the bus into town. The journey wasn’t new to him - sometimes he had to come this way to see Ms Picquery, when Tina couldn’t collect him from the house. Then she would meet him at a cafe around the corner from Ms Picquery’s office and buy him a slice of pie. 

The ride was okay when he had a purpose. He could gaze blankly out at the passing streets secure that, when his stop came, he had a definite place to go and a definite task to achieve. It wasn’t really the same, otherwise. If he came into town just because, he ended up wandering around aimlessly, increasingly frustrated at his inability to do normal things like an afternoon of shopping. He would swing from feeling invisible to paranoid that people were staring at him. If he persisted and carried on regardless, the result would be waves of exhausting panic. He’d decided it wasn’t worth the effort just to look in a few shops.

_Too much, too soon_ , Tina had said. _One thing at a time, Credence._

His destination today was the library. It stood in a square, close to other county buildings. They all looked very similar; colonial style but, as they were on a smaller scale than he was used to, not as imposing as they might otherwise have been.

The library had only two floors. He registered at the desk without much difficulty, and made his way to the couple of computers tucked into the corner. There was one other occupant; an elderly lady browsing seed catalogues. Credence chose a seat on the opposite side, and began his search.

After half an hour, he realised it was a waste of time. The address only brought up real estate results and he had nothing else to go on. The Wikipedia page for the town was seven sentences long, nearly all of which concerned the annual founder’s fair. If something notorious had happened at 128 Yew Tree Drive it should’ve at least got a mention.

But, if he was honest, he already knew he wasn’t looking for anything like that. Whatever had happened in the house - whatever was _still_ happening - felt much more personal. A private matter; nothing to excite much public interest.

He looked around the library; it was quiet, mid-morning on a Tuesday. One of the librarians was sitting at the desk on her own. Credence gathered up his notebook and his bag, and went over to her.

“Excuse me,” he said. He must have spoken too softly, as she didn’t stir from her magazine. “Excuse me,” he said again, a little louder.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she answered. “Didn’t see you there. How can I help?”

Credence shifted his bag on his shoulder. “I’m doing some research, into the house I’m staying at. Do you have any local records, maybe, that I could look at?”

She scratched her chin with a short blunt nail. “Well, there’s the town planning archives,” she said. “But we don’t keep them here. I’d have to request them - that’d take a couple of weeks.”

“Okay,” Credence said, wondering if that was indeed what he wanted. He didn’t know; that was the problem. “I’ll do that, then.”

“But if you wanted something today, you could try the local newspaper? Might be something in there. Old pictures and so on.”

“Yes, that sounds good,” Credence said. And it did - much more promising. “I’ll try that now. If I may.”

She got up from her stool and came round the counter. “We’ve still got them on microfilm, I’m afraid. One day we’ll catch up with the times, but we’re struggling for funding as it is.” She shrugged, then gestured for him to follow.

She led him through the stacks to a room with a sign on the door which read: _Local Archives._ Underneath a print-out was taped to the door: _For Access Please Enquire At The Desk_. Inside was a table with a strange-looking monitor, and shelves filled with dozens of boxes.

“It’s not the best,” she said, while Credence took in the cramped room. “But it’s functional. Now, the records go back to about 1897, or thereabouts. Where do you want to start?”

“Um,” Credence said, putting his bag down again. “I don’t know. I don’t know when the house was built. It’s on Yew Tree Drive, do you know it?”

“That’s in Woodbury,” she said. “My aunt lives that way. Nice part of town.” She turned to the shelves. “None of those houses were built before 1950, so let’s start you off there.”

*

It was on the fourth day that Credence found what he’d been looking for.

Margaret - for that was the librarian’s name - had been extremely kind to him. _Back again?_ she said with a friendly smile each morning. And then something like _I put this aside for you_ , and would slide across the counter a local history pamphlet. If he really had been studying history, like he’d led her to believe - the best excuse he’d been able to come up with, once she’d grown curious about his interest - her help would have been invaluable.

Some of the books were interesting enough for him to take home and read in the evenings. They contained nothing relevant to his mystery but the pictures of old houses gave him a pleasant far-away feeling. The more he thought of it, the more natural it seemed that a house might take on something of the personality of those who had lived there - something more permanent than might be expected from an ordinary human life. A house was made a house by its inhabitants; otherwise it was just an anonymous building, empty and without purpose. Maybe houses contained all kinds of echoes, and only the strongest were visible to those still living.

All the while, everything remained quite ordinary at number 128. Though he’d considered - more than once - addressing out-loud the whatever-it-was which was present, Credence had decided to continue on as if nothing unusual had occurred. He hadn’t given up hope on finding out more about it first.

That morning, he started up the microfilm reader as usual. It was very simple to operate, once Margaret had shown him how. Newsprint pages flicked by in monochrome, page by page, headline by headline. It was tiring work, and easy to be lulled into a sort of trance where, too late, Credence would realise several pages had been passed over without him understanding what they contained. 

For lunch, he had brought a couple of sandwiches and an apple. He ate these on a bench in the square - eating was forbidden inside the library - and afterwards Margaret let him join her behind the counter to warm himself with a cup of tea. She liked blackcurrant in the afternoons, and Credence had grown to like it too.

It was about an hour before the library closed that a headline drew the full force of his attention: _Tragic Death of Well-Known Figure._ There was a photograph too - a man in a dark suit stepping out of a grand building. His face was turned away but neither the severe set of his eyebrows, nor the firm line of his mouth, had escaped the camera. The photo had been cropped - there were elbows and shoulders of other similarly dark-suited men around him. The text which accompanied it read:

_“The body of Mr Percival Graves was discovered at his home last Thursday_. _Mr Graves, 41, was once a leading figure in the New York political sphere, most notably serving three years as New York City Police Commissioner. Mr Graves left public office in February 1951 under unknown circumstances, but was widely believed to have been targeted by the Subcommittee on Investigations and questioned under McCarthyist pretexts. No official announcement was ever made on the rumours surrounding his departure and Mr Graves declined to comment at the time._

_“Since then, Mr Graves lived out his retirement quietly at home in the Woodbury district. It is believed he had family links to the area but The Post understand he leaves no next of kin. The coroner yesterday pronounced his death as accidental. A private memorial service will be held on Tuesday next.”_

In the bottom left, there was another photo. It showed the outside of a house, shaded by trees and fairly unremarkable. There were maybe hundreds of that type around town.

Very clearly, in the corner of the photograph, was a mailbox. Painted on it in bright white letters were the numbers _One-Two-Eight_.

*

Credence left the library soon after that, though not before carefully writing out the contents of the article or noting the edition and page number. He could have asked Margaret for a print-out but the idea of bringing it into the house seemed too invasive. Lord knew he tried to avoid mentions of the New Salem scandal in the papers, and felt sure whatever was left of Mr Graves would feel the same way about a report of his own death.

The bus stopped at the corner of Oaklands and Maple Drive. He got off and began the short walk up the hill. Thoughts began to crowd his mind. Could whatever waited for him at home be called Mr Graves? Was it really him, or just a piece which got leftover by mistake?

He stopped suddenly, just beyond the driveway of a house with a particularly large cream-painted porch. The window frames above it were the same colour; they looked like eyes, blank and watchful. He moved on again, not wishing to make himself noticeable, but knowing he couldn’t go home yet. He needed time to think.

He took a left, up Douglas Avenue. It would take him higher, almost into the woods, or what was left of them. He’d walk in circles if he had to.

Something about the article had pulled him in, even before he’d seen the picture of the house. The name and face were new but they fit with the feel he’d got from the house. It had been obvious it belonged to someone older than him - older, but not too old; definitely not elderly - and male.

And it went even further than that, Credence realised. He was now aware there was a stubborn quality to it, almost brusque. Armed with his picture and a scant few facts of how he’d come to live there, Credence could see him shifting restlessly from room to room, adrift and alone. An active man, a career ended; he would have tried to have made the best of it but there was something else, too, Credence thought. Something he didn’t know, yet. He wouldn’t have given up easily.

And now Credence had come to live in his house. A succession of Credences, or cases very similar anyway. He didn’t know how long the Foundation had owned the house but there had surely been many.

He came upon a low wall, where the road swept round the brow of the hill, skirting the wood. Credence sat down on it and took off his rucksack.

Whatever part of Mr Graves was there now, he hadn’t seemed unfriendly. He tried to help Credence through his panic, or at least make up for his part in it. And the letters... Did he want to talk to Credence somehow? Or just let it be known he was there?

It must awful, thought Credence, to be walking around for years and have no one see you. Awful, and very, very relatable.

*

It was evening when he got home again; there was a nip in the air and the dusk was gathering thickly. He hadn’t expected to be back so late. The house was in darkness - all except for the sitting room lamp, anyway.

Credence noted it silently. He had planned to have his dinner first - a packet of macaroni and cheese would do. He took his jacket off, stowed his bag away, and went to the kitchen.

The house was very quiet - maybe even more quiet than usual. Credence added milk to the saucepan and stirred away, not looking up from the stove. He was extremely good at being unobtrusive when the occasion called for it. He didn’t react even when a strong smell of tobacco drifted in; it passed by in a sort of wave, then faded out. But it lingered, over the breakfast table, while he ate.

After dinner, he washed the dishes in the sink, then dried them carefully and put them away. The kitchen was tidy; he could delay no longer.

The tobacco-smell was much stronger in the sitting room. Credence could almost believe he saw it rising from the armchair, and swirling about below the ceiling.

He cleared his throat. “Mr Graves, I’m sorry about my reaction the other day,” he said. “I know you weren’t trying to scare me.” The silence which followed seemed to be the loud and ringing sort. “I’m going up to bed now - goodnight, Mr Graves.”

And with that, Credence turned and went straight upstairs. Once in his room, he sat down for a few moments until his heart rate returned to normal. It had been a strange thing to address an empty room whilst knowing it was not empty. But he was not frightened, only a little unsteady with excess adrenaline. He left his book on his pillow and went to the bathroom to ready himself for bed.

When he returned, he felt much more like his normal self. Thankfully so, because then it was much easier to cope with the shock of finding a man in his room.

Dimly, he was aware that he should have felt threatened; terrified, even. This was his private space, and he had dedicated the past year of his life wresting it back from those who never should have sullied it in the first place. But no fear came: after the surprise was only curiosity.

The man stood behind the bed, looking out of the window with his back to Credence. The tobacco-smell surrounded him. There was nothing especially ghostly about him, even though that was what Credence was sure he was. He looked as solid as the wall he stood beside.

“Mr Graves?” he asked. “That is you, isn't it? Can- Can you hear me?”

Mr Graves turned slowly, glancing once at Credence over his shoulder first. He held his hands loosely in his pockets. His black three-piece suit was worn with a crisp white shirt and a silver pin in his tie. It made him look stern, but rather dashing with it. Though his face didn't form a smile, somehow the impression of one reached Credence.

“Yes, I can hear you perfectly well,” Mr Graves said. His voice was calm and low. “Though you make a lot less noise than my usual tenants. It's Credence, correct?” Credence nodded. “Consider us formally acquainted, then, Credence.”

Credence blinked a few times and wondered if he should make some reference to how odd all this was. In the end, all he managed to say was, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” And, as an afterthought, “I hope you don’t mind me being here too much. I’ll be out of your way in a few months.”

Mr Graves didn’t answer right away; he tipped his head in a considering manner, and frowned a little. “I want you to know you're welcome in my house, Credence.” In a few measured steps, he rounded the bed, passing Credence on the way to the door. “For as long as you’re able to stay.”

He left, and the door closed softly behind him. A scent lingered in the room, cigarettes and something like brandy.

Credence stared at the door for a long time after, even once he’d got into bed. His last thought before sleep was to wonder if Mr Graves would sit in his armchair all night, smoking, and entirely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST ADDED - gorgeous ghost!Graves art from [internalizedobscurial](https://internalizedobscurial.tumblr.com/) XD
> 
> Both of us thought we were the only fill for this prompt but it turned out that the art and fic worked really well together, so I asked if I could post it here. [Here is the original post on tumblr so if you like it, please go show it some love <3](https://internalizedobscurial.tumblr.com/post/166696345736/my-painting-for-the-gradence-trick-or-treat)


	2. Chapter 2

Morning arrived as sunny as any spring day. Credence lay for a while in bed, watching the brightness peek out from the chinks between the curtains. He wondered what he’d find when he went downstairs.

There was a strange fluttering in his stomach. Anticipation, he thought. The good kind. It was nice that there should be something happening to him, something to think about, which had nothing to do with the New Salem Church. 

He’d slept really very well, too. His dreams were always vivid, and last night had been no different. But in them Mr Graves had paced the corridor outside his bedroom door - expanded to vast and shadowy proportions in his dreams - and the pulsating mass of darkness - which always managed to seep in through the cracks around his door - had stayed away. Mr Graves would not let it pass, Credence had known. And as Mr Graves - being dead - did not need to sleep, then Credence could do so without fear. It had all made so much sense at the time, and in his dream he had taken it quite for granted.

He went down for breakfast only ten minutes later than usual. Mr Graves was sitting at the little kitchen table, directly opposite where Credence would usually be eating his toast and cereal.

On instinct, Credence startled back. He leant against the door, hand over his racing heart, while his body caught up with what his mind already knew.

“Do you take anything for your nerves?” Mr Graves asked, conversationally. He produced a cigarette and a book of matches from his waistcoat pocket. The strike of the match and the flaring cigarette end were crisply audible. “You seem to have trouble with them.”

Credence wrapped his arms around himself and wished he’d got dressed before coming down. Thin sweatpants and a raggedy old t-shirt were too conspicuous next to Mr Graves. Sunshine glinted off his tie-pin and Brylcreemed hair. 

“No,” Credence said. “It’s only because I’m not used to seeing you - I’ll be fine soon.”

“You should try cigarettes.” Mr Graves took a long, deep drag with every sign of enjoyment. A few inches from his lips the smoke vanished, like it had ceased to exist. “My God, have I missed this,” he said.

“They give you cancer.” Credence frowned, and then wondered if it was bad manners to talk about life-threatening diseases in front of the already-dead.

Mr Graves huffed out a short laugh. “So they say.” He studied first the end of the cigarette, then Credence, still hovering by the door. “If you’re not going to take up smoking, at least get some breakfast,” he said, indicating the seat opposite. “Not eating isn’t going to help your nerves.”

When Credence didn’t move, he said, “Just carry on like you normally do. Don’t mind me. I want to talk to you while you eat.”

“You’ve been waiting for me?” Credence couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “Why?”

Mr Graves leaned back in his chair. He had a fresh a cigarette in his hand; the old one had disappeared somewhere. “Hurry up and sit down,” he said, “and I’ll tell you.”

Credence nodded, and went about gathering his breakfast. It didn’t take longer than five minutes. He’d just placed the teapot onto the table when a new thought grabbed him.

“Can you eat at all?” he asked uncertainly. “Should I get you something too?”

Mr Graves shook his head. “No, but that toast smells damn good. I can almost remember what it’s like to feel hungry.”

Credence looked at the very ordinary brown sliced bread on his plate. “Would you like some?”

He pushed the plate closer. Mr Graves pursed his lips and frowned deeply down at it. Then he picked up a slice, held it up to his nose, and breathed it in. His eyes closed in great satisfaction, just for a moment. 

“Enjoy this while you can,” he said to Credence, waving the toast about for emphasis. “It’s no use to you whatsoever on this side of the mortal coil, that’s for sure. I tried eating the first time around and, well- let’s just say it’s not pretty.”

“The first time?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about.” Mr Graves spread his arms out in an expansive gesture. “Why am I here, Credence?”

Credence blinked a few times and tried to think of answer. “I don’t know, Mr Graves - something to do with the immortal spirit, I suppose?”

“No, I mean, right now. Since yesterday, in fact. You came home and you spoke to me and-” He spread his arms out again. “Here I am.”

“But you’ve always been here, haven’t you? The lamp and the smoke. I could feel you, a presence or something.”

“Not like this,” Mr Graves said. “Not for a long time. I’ve been on a slow fade to oblivion for decades.” He leaned across the table, towards Credence. “What happened yesterday, Credence? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Credence protested. “I went to the library. I knew there was something here and I wanted to know what it was. I found your name and I saw your picture, in a newspaper. And I wanted to speak to you, after you took care of me the other day.”

There was a long silence. The table wasn’t large and Mr Graves’ face was very close. Credence could see the smaller, finer lines around his eyes and the individual bristles of his five o’clock shadow. It was quite remarkable; he was present in every detail. And yet, in some ways, he couldn’t really be said to be there at all.

“A newspaper,” Mr Graves said, with an air of finality. He sat back in his chair, but no longer looked at ease. Some rigidity had crept into his frame, and he kept his eyes on the table-top.

“It didn’t tell me anything about what happened to you,” said Credence. Then, in a poor attempt at commiseration: “You needn’t worry. Even if it had… well, I’m not a fan of newspapers, either.”

Mr Graves watched him shrewdly from underneath glowering eyebrows. After a moment, he shrugged a shoulder as if to say _it doesn’t matter to me if it did or not_ but Credence could tell it did. Very much so. 

“You look so real,” Credence said in a rush. He couldn’t keep his wonder in any more - with every slight gesture, movement, expression it got harder and harder to remember Mr Graves wasn’t alive and breathing like Credence was. “Not that you’re not real, I just meant-”

Mr Graves held up a hand to stop him. “No need to dance around it,” he said. “I’m here but I’m also not-here. I accepted that a long time ago.” He paused, leaned forward on his elbows. “Now is the point in the conversation where I should ask why you’re here, but I imagine you want to talk about that even less than you want to explain why you don’t like newspapers either.”

Credence considered this silently. Mr Graves, in some form, had been in the house since he’d arrived. He’d witnessed his mail, his visitors. Maybe the aftermath of some of his nightmares. Mr Graves might know an awful lot about why he was here already.

The thought made him obscurely sad. He would never be able to just know someone casually - all his relationships would be divided into the people who knew and the people who didn’t. And then there would be the befores and the afters of knowing. The pity, and maybe the horror, would cloud any simple and uncomplicated feelings anyone could have for him.

“You knew my name,” Credence said, rather sullenly. “You probably already know everything about me.”

There was a defined movement opposite, which made him look up. Mr Graves was shaking his head firmly. “I don’t eavesdrop,” he said. “The people who come to live here - who I share my house with - I know they all need shelter of some kind. And I try to give it to them. There’s precious little of it around, especially when it’s most needed.” 

“Shelter,” repeated Credence. It have never occurred to him quite that way before. “Yes.”

Mr Graves produced another cigarette and lit it. “You said once you felt safer when the lamp was on. Was that true?” 

“You were there when I said that?”

“You were stood in the entryway,” said Mr Graves. “I do and try to give you privacy when what’s-her-name is here, but it’s difficult if you roam all over the house.”

“Tina,” Credence said, faintly. “And thank you.”

“You look sad when she’s due to visit,” Mr Graves said. “And then you look sad again after she’s gone. Did you know that?”

“No,” Credence said. “I like seeing her and it’s good for me. But I guess it means I have to think about things I don’t really want to think about.”

“Can’t avoid our own pasts, I’m afraid. Even when we’re dead.” Mr Graves exhaled a long and steady stream of smoke. “About the lamp - did you mean it?”

“Yeah,” Credence said. “Yeah, I did. I do.”

“Good,” Mr Graves said. “Then that’s something.”

*

They had breakfast together every morning after that. Credence quickly grew used to making an extra slice of toast, which he set aside on a separate plate for Mr Graves. He even started to make coffee. Mr Graves said the smell was almost as good as drinking it, and would sit very happily with it cupped between his hands while Credence crunched away at his cereal, nose in a book.

Though Mr Graves’ sudden presence was unexpected, it was easy enough to adapt to and Credence’s routine continued on surprisingly well. Mr Graves joined him for all meals, in the manner of a scrupulously polite houseguest. Credence found him to be far more talkative at dinner - that first breakfast had been an exception, apparently. Mr Graves stated that, though he no longer needed sleep, his body clock hadn’t entirely deserted him and mornings remained a time dedicated to quiet contemplation.

Their dinners passed quite differently. Mr Graves had spent a long time without conversation, and seemed to enjoy drawing Credence out of his habitual diffidence. He would ask about his day, or his opinion on the book he was reading, or get him to describe what his food tasted like, until Credence’s throat was sore from talking. And then afterwards, they would read together very companionably in the sitting room before Credence went to bed.

At first, Mr Graves complained about the choice of books - mostly left behind by previous tenants and not at all to his taste. Credence got him some from the library but soon noticed that a couple of John Grishams had snuck into the pile of Hemingway and Steinbeck he kept by the armchair.

Credence refused to use it, now. The chair so obviously belonged to Mr Graves, with its square wingback shape and worn spots on the arms which fit his elbows exactly. And the idea of him having to sit on the cheap and sprawling modern couch was much too jarring. At one point, Mr Graves had been very stubborn about Credence’s insistence, but Credence had sat pointedly down on the couch and ignored him until he’d given in. Though, privately, he preferred the cosiness of the armchair, it mattered much less with Mr Graves in his rightful place by the fire.

*

After a few weeks had passed, it became clear that Mr Graves was there to stay. He showed no sign of the “slow fade” he’d mentioned and went on looking as warm and solid as the first time they’d met - which made it rather awkward when Tina came round.

Then, Mr Graves would go up to his old bedroom and smoke endless ghostly cigarettes until it was safe to come down again. Credence had been glad to learn it was not the one he used, as he would’ve felt compelled to give that up too. He’d grown to love the view of trees over the garden and the way the dawn would slowly brighten the room each morning. Mr Graves’ old room looked over the front of the house, where the sun wouldn’t intrude until late in the afternoon. He’d not been a natural early riser, he had explained, and hated being woken by a blast of sunlight.

One day, even Tina mentioned she could smell cigarette smoke. They were in the dining room with papers spread out across the table - it had grown too cold to sit out under the yew. Credence had begun to wonder if others were able to notice it, or if it was just him, and felt silly for being disappointed that they could. Silly, and more than a little selfish - Mr Graves deserved more than the meagre company Credence could provide.

“I think it’s the neighbours,” Credence said. “The lady next door smokes out the window when her husband is out - it gets into the kitchen somehow.”

Tina craned her neck in the direction of the neighbouring house, as if she could actually see through the wall. Credence was extremely glad she didn’t go to the window to look for herself, only to find no one there.

“Oh well,” she said. “I suppose if it’s only in the day it won’t bother you much. Have you seen much of the neighbours? Are they friendly?”

Credence shrugged. “They keep to themselves, but they sort of say hello if they pass by. Doesn’t happen often.”

“I thought you seemed a bit more settled,” she said. “Like you’d found a couple of friendly faces, perhaps.”

“People want to ask you things,” Credence said. “Where you’re from, what you do, what your parents are like. I don’t know what to say - I can’t tell them the truth.”

“Did you give any more thought to the survivors group? That’s the kind of thing it might be good for - you can hear how others have managed.”

Credence pulled a face. “I don’t really feel like I’ve survived, yet. Maybe in a couple of months, once it’s all over.”

For that, he got a look which bordered on skeptical. “I think you’ve done just fine getting this far,” she said, firmly. “And things are going to start moving very quickly. Ms Picquery believes a date will be set any day now.”

Credence nodded. Yes, he’d thought so. The visits to her office had become less about gathering insight and more about sizing him up to see how he would cope under pressure. “I just want to get it over with,” he said.

*

After Tina left, Mr Graves’ steps could be heard on the stairs.

“She noticed your cigarette smoke,” Credence called. “Better open a window next time.”

“Don’t see why she wouldn’t - seems like a bright enough girl.” Mr Graves’ voice drifted in from the sitting room. Credence washed up the cups, and went to join him. 

Neither of them had ever spoken about the reason for Tina’s visits, or about the contents of the letters Credence continued to receive. Mr Graves didn’t ask and, in return, Credence didn’t question him about his past, either. 

Credence had asked many other questions, though. He was curious about Mr Graves’ ties to the house - it turned out he could not leave. The end of the drive and halfway down the yard were as far as he could go. Contrary to Credence’s expectations - which involved a physical compulsion pulling him close to the house - Mr Graves described there being a kind of barrier he could not pass. Soft and cotton-y, he said. Like the air got too thick to move through.

Often, they discussed popular ideas about hauntings - though Mr Graves said, rather than haunting anything, it felt more like a cross between recovering from a long convalescence and a very lengthy retirement. Credence agreed that neither the house or himself felt remotely haunted, but they couldn’t think what else to call Mr Graves’ sudden re-appearance. 

Prior to it, Mr Graves explained he had been perfectly conscious and aware, but lacking much interest in his surroundings. “Take the books, for instance,” he had said. “I could’ve read them before. I could’ve picked them up, moved them about, even without a body to speak of. But what would’ve been the point?”

Other than the simple fact that Credence had spoken to him, they couldn’t identify what it had been which had called Mr Graves into his current existence. Not that Mr Graves was surprised - he hadn’t known what had done it the first time, he’d said, and lit another cigarette.

“It’s chicken pot pie tonight,” Credence reminded him, once in the sitting room. Mr Graves was in his chair, a book of cryptic crosswords balanced on one knee. The ever-present cigarette burned between his fingers.

Mr Graves tapped his pen contemplatively against his chin. “Something I recognise for once,” he said. “Makes a change. I thought I’d achieved a certain sophistication over the course of my life, but it seems it can’t stand up to modern domestic cookery.”

Credence hid a small smile. “That was _one time_. And I’d never had pad thai before, either.”

Mr Graves’ interest in Credence’s dinners had not waned, so, as what Credence could cook was both limited and not very exciting, a plan had been hatched to get hold of a decent cookery book and work through it together. Mr Graves even expressed a desire to help out, his experience of cooking apparently limited to grilling steak, baking potatoes, and frying eggs. Together they would pore over the recipe, and Credence would collect any missing ingredients. He found he could brave the large supermarket on the edge of town, if he had a list and kept his visit short. Then, around five-thirty, they would enter the kitchen and begin.

“Cocktail hour,” Mr Graves said, every night. “Wish someone would tell me why I’ve got an endless supply of cigarettes but no bourbon in sight.”

Credence had found out what happened if Mr Graves tried to eat or drink anything - he’d been unable to not ask, after watching him roll up his sleeves and whisk pancake batter but never even once taste the syrup. 

“I can put food in my mouth and chew it,” he’d explained. “But that’s about it. I can’t ingest anything - I guess because I don’t have much of a body to do the ingesting with. Just end up with lumps of chewed food lying about the place.” Credence’s face must have showed his feelings a little too plainly, because Mr Graves had laughed and simply said, “Told you it wasn’t pretty.”

Still Credence had persisted in his questions - even so, he’d asked, could Mr Graves not just spit it out? At least then he’d have some of the sensation of eating, which he obviously missed. But Mr Graves said he couldn’t taste it, either. “Exactly like soggy cardboard,” he said - but his cigarettes were a different matter. “ _Delicious_ ,” he pronounced the first over dinner, when Credence picked up his knife and fork and began eating.

Like Mr Graves, his cigarettes obeyed a different set of physical rules. Once, Credence tried to take one from him and found he couldn’t. It faded out of existence as soon as Mr Graves let go of it, presumably to appear back in his waistcoat pocket. Following that experiment, and after some anxious deliberation, Credence wanted to know if Mr Graves could touch _him_ and vice versa _._

How to ask was Credence’s first problem; it seemed indelicate, and every question he thought of was shaped exactly like it was being asked by someone who found the subject difficult. Anyone else - someone who’d learned about healthy physical contact at a young age and could take it for granted - would presumably know exactly the right thing to say. In addition, Mr Graves appeared very conscious of personal space. Despite living in close proximity for weeks, he had never so much as accidentally skimmed his jacket against Credence’s arm or brushed their fingers when passing the salt.

Eventually, though, Credence didn’t have to find the words.

There was pastry to be made that night, for the pie lids. They had agreed beforehand to risk disaster and attempt to make it themselves, rather than buy some ready-made. The moment when it was laid across the dish was a tense one. Both of them bent anxiously over it, looking for cracks. 

“‘Trim the edges’,” Credence read from the recipe book. “That must mean these overhanging bits.” He looked around for something to use. “How do we do that?”

“Aha,” said Mr Graves, with a note of triumph. “I used to watch my mother do this all the time. Let me.”

He held the pie dish aloft like a waiter presenting a tray, and with a sharp knife hacked off the excess pastry around the edges. After, he studied his efforts with a critical demeanour, and Credence experienced the strange sliding sensation he sometimes got around Mr Graves - the one where he remembered, again, that shouldn’t really be there, standing next to Credence, all covered in flour. 

Mr Graves was rolling his sleeves back into place when he caught Credence staring. Credence flushed a little. His forearms were tan; their tendons and muscles flexed as he’d used the knife. There were even creases in his shirt, from being rolled up.

“I just don’t understand,” Credence said. “You look solid, you pick things up, you make noise on the stairs. But-” He bit his tongue. But what?

A short pause followed. Mr Graves wiped his hands and waited.

“The cigarettes,” Credence said. “When I touched them-”

“Think I’ll disappear? Or maybe that your hand will go right through me? I doubt it,” Mr Graves said. He held his palm up to Credence. “Want to find out?”

Credence thought about giving him a high-five and almost laughed. Nerves, he thought. He was nervous. Mr Graves was both here and not-here - did he want to know what that meant? 

He mirrored Mr Graves’ gesture and moved his own palm slowly closer. When it grazed against Mr Graves’, he gasped. There was resistance and warmth and the unmistakable texture of someone else’s skin, but it wasn’t at all like touching another person. At least in Credence’s experience. Mr Graves really was there and not-there, both mixed up at the same time. He felt like mist given substance, packed densely into a human mould. But it was a mould which Credence could feel.

Credence smiled; actually laughed with relief. He twined his fingers with Mr Graves’. “Can you feel that too?”

“Of course.” Mr Graves squeezed his fingers back. “Can’t believe you doubted me.” He gave Credence a wink, before letting him go. 

*

A couple of days later, a letter arrived. Credence read it three times, folded it back into its envelope and left it on the desk in the study. Then he went back into the study and shut it in a drawer; a drawer which he locked. He put the key in another drawer, and closed the door firmly behind him.

He stood outside for a few minutes. Tremors were beginning in his limbs; he could feel his heart starting to race.

“I need to go out,” he said to Mr Graves, as he went to fetch a coat. “For a walk. I’ll be back later.”

Though he felt Mr Graves’s eyes on him as left, he let Credence go without interruption.

The air outside was crisp and scented with burning leaves. The sidewalks had been swept clear, but the occasional yard still had great piles of them awaiting a weekend bonfire. Credence pictured rosy-faced children standing around to watch, while Father fussed over it. Mother would hold their hands to keep them safely back and later they all would toast marshmallows over the embers.

That was how he imagined it must go, anyway.

He didn’t roam aimlessly; he had a beat he followed. Straight up the hill, as fast as he could, keeping on until his heart beat fast from exertion rather than fear. Near the top, he turned off sharply, into the woods. There was a wide trail in there, much used by dog walkers and joggers. He wanted to see the leaves as they’d fallen, untidy and careless. The streets were too neat, the houses too watchful.

There were maples at first, and other trees he didn’t know how to name. Bare branches straggled upwards, only a few rattling leaves left on them. The ferns were dying and withered; everything was daubed in shades of rust-brown. Deeper in, the pines and firs began, their silvery-greens darkly sombre against the sky. Last years’ needles were deep underfoot; Credence kicked through them as he went. They smelled dry, faded like stale sawdust. 

He came to a small clearing at the side of the path. Recently felled trees lined it, the soft wood pale and vulnerable. He sat down on one. Here the sawdust was fresh and the needles sharply resinous; the top note of the forest’s fragrance.

He’d grown up in the city and had no childhood memories of happy days spent playing in the woods. Did everyone have the same associations with the scent of pine forests, regardless? Wild green and warm wood, overlain with nostalgia. 

It brought Mr Graves to mind - an old-fashioned kind of smell; earthily-clean, briskly masculine. Had he walked alone in the woods, like Credence, when he’d been alive? Credence wished he was there now, sitting by his side. He would be silent; he never pushed. He had his own reasons for not talking, Credence knew. They had that in common.

It made his heart twist, like it wanted to escape through his ribs. 

He hadn’t just been walking off his fear; he’d been running, Credence realised. He was going to have to tell him - he wouldn’t be able to hide it, soon. It would be too hard, once the trial began.

He plucked a few needles from a branch and crushed them between his fingers. Their scent rose up, bright and pure. Credence breathed it in and tried not to cry. 

*

He sat in the woods until he got cold, then pulled himself together and trudged back down the hill. 

Mr Graves was in the sitting room, exuding the deliberate air of someone not waiting for his return. He glanced up as Credence passed into the kitchen, but that was all.

Credence filled and boiled the kettle, and sat for a while at the kitchen table. There was a numbness inside him, like he’d brought the chill of the forest back home. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t good, either. He sat hunched and unmoving over his tea, and when he remembered it found it was both too strong and too cold to drink. 

The fluorescent ceiling light flickered on. It had got dark without him noticing.

Mr Graves stood in the doorway. “I’m going to teach you how to smoke,” he announced.

This derailed Credence’s thoughts so effectively that all that came out of his mouth was an impolite: “What?”

“I’m going to teach you how to smoke,” Mr Graves said again. “Every man should know how.”

“But-”

“Even if they do give you cancer.” Mr Graves leaned against the wall, arms decisively crossed. “Run along to the store and get yourself a pack - just a small one, mind. I’m only teaching you how, not giving you a habit.”

Credence just stared at him open-mouthed. Mr Graves didn’t budge. Neither did Credence, though his mind was kept very busy wondering at this sudden instruction. But, he thought, what else was he going to do? Hide in the kitchen, in the dark and on his own, until it was time to go upstairs for a repeat performance in his own room? 

He got up and fetched his coat.

*

The stars were out when Credence returned. They sat outside under the yew - Credence wrapped up in both coat and blanket. Even having the pack in his pocket, cheap plastic lighter jostling alongside, felt illicit. It was better that they be out in the dark to do this, he thought, with the yellow glow from the windows spilling onto the lawn, and the moon rising behind them.

They pressed close on the bench; Mr Graves gave off a surprising amount of warmth. Credence needed it; his nose and fingers felt like ice. He fumbled the pack open, drew out a cigarette, and looked rather hopelessly at Mr Graves.

Mr Graves was outlined by the light from the house, the rest of his face in shadow. When he spoke, his breath didn’t cloud the air like Credence’s. “If I could, I’d light it for you,” he said. “You’ll have to watch me.”

He slipped two fingers into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a cigarette and matches. He struck one alight, and said, “Now, you’re not trying to breathe anything in, okay? You’re just lighting the thing. Hold the flame up to the end and suck in air through it - gently - until it catches. Like this.”

Credence watched carefully, but it was over in less than a second.

Mr Graves turned his attention back to Credence. “Go on,” he said. “The worst thing that can happen is you suck too hard and make yourself cough.”

Credence felt himself quail a little. He had no desire to be reduced to a coughing, choking wreck in front of Mr Graves. But it didn’t go too badly; in fact, he was so cautious it took a couple of tries for it to light.

“Very good,” Mr Graves said. “Now, do it again, draw some of that smoke into your mouth. But not too hard and not too fast, or you’ll scorch your throat.” He demonstrated, and after opened his mouth to show Credence the smoke curling over his tongue and out between his lips.

Credence tried to do the same, but the acrid smoke tickled his throat and make him splutter. Mr Graves grinned at him and slapped his back a couple of times. His coughing died away, but the taste left in his mouth was awful.

“How can people enjoy this?” asked Credence, grimacing. “I don’t get it.”

Mr Graves laughed. “Keep going. Try this - hold it in your mouth until your next breath in. Then, breathe the smoke in and blow it out. Slowly.”

It took a couple of goes for Credence to succeed. When he managed to breathe out a long and elegant stream of smoke – instead of coughing it out in short strangled puffs - it felt like an achievement. Watching it whirl around his head was maybe the most enjoyable part of the whole process.

Mr Graves’ face was creased in a broad smile. Credence laughed back at him; he couldn’t help it. His fingers had grown a little tingly, and parts of his face. Some of the tension had melted from around his ribs.

“The key to a good cigarette,” Mr Graves said, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle, “is taking the time to enjoy it. Repose is needed; peace and quiet.”

They sat for a while in comfortable silence. When Credence finished his first ever cigarette, Mr Graves let him have a second but forbid any more than that. By the time they went in for dinner, Credence thought he’d quite got the hang of it, even if he did feel a little giddy.

*

It was when Credence saw the newspapers in the grocery store the next morning that he made his decision.

There was a rack of them by the door; all carried a version of the same headline. He brooded long over it, while he chose some instant ramen and a jar of peanut butter. Before he paid, he added the paper with the least lurid headline to his basket. He made sure it was folded over before carrying it home.

It was the easiest way, he told himself. Let Mr Graves read about it himself. Then Credence wouldn’t have to be there; he wouldn’t have to see his expression change as he realised exactly what kind of past he was trying to escape from.

He smoothed it open across the dining room table. The headline shouted so loudly, it hurt to look at: NEW SALEM CHILD ABUSE TRIAL BEGINS.

Even worse were the photos under it; one of Father Grindelwald visiting a children’s hospital – taken from the Church’s website before it got shut down – and one of Mary Lou looking tearfully wronged after her arrest.

She’d entered a guilty plea; he hadn’t.

Mr Graves was reading in his armchair, as usual. He would be expecting Credence to boil the kettle for tea, and then they might tackle the crossword together. Instead, Credence was going to spoil his day.

“I left something for you in the dining room,” Credence said. “When you’ve read it, I’ll be outside.”

He just caught Mr Graves’ confused look, but Credence didn’t stop to explain.

He waited under the yew. He tried not to notice how much time passed, but it was long enough for the cold to creep through the seams of his coat. He pulled it tighter around himself, and continued to wait.

Eventually, the door opened. Mr Graves walked over the wet grass and sat down beside him. Credence couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I had to tell you somehow,” Credence said, to his sneakers. “I didn’t want to burden you with it, but I’ll have to testify soon. It’s going to be hard - you would’ve known something was wrong.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr Graves hunch over, elbows on his knees. He, too, was staring at the ground. Credence risked a glance at his face; on it was etched a deep frown. He looked very grim; displeased, in fact. It was everything Credence had feared.

Mr Graves caught his expression. “No, no…” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not angry with you - you don’t need to worry about burdening me.”

“Right,” Credence said. He sounded vacant even to his own ears. The creeping sense of unreality was gaining ground again - the one he’d come to believe was worse than almost anything else. He balled his hands into fists and tried to focus. There were things he had to say, explain to Mr Graves - the newspapers couldn’t tell his story, after all. They weren’t allowed to.

“I have a sister,” he began. “Sort of. She’s adopted, like me.”

“They’re keeping you apart?”

Credence nodded. “Modesty’s in a good foster home. She goes to school, she gets a chance at a normal life. She wouldn’t have that if she stayed with me.” He shivered; concentrated on the rough wood of the bench under his palms. “And Ms Picquery doesn’t want to give the defence any ground to accuse us of collusion. Her memory isn’t very good, you see, about the things that happened. They might say I’ve coached her if we were together unsupervised.”

“Ms Picquery - she’s your lawyer?”

“The best, so Tina says.” Credence shrugged. “It’s a big case.”

“And Tina is, what, exactly…?”

“My caseworker,” Credence said. “She works for the MACUSA Foundation. I wouldn’t have got this far without them - they look after people like me. Make sure we can get justice, or whatever.” He looked up at the house. “They own this place. They’re why I’m here.”

There was a short silence. Mr Graves gazed toward the house - his house. After a few minutes had passed, he said in a quiet voice, “Well, I’m glad for that.” He turned sharply to Credence, then, and covered his hand with his own. “I mean- I’m sorry you had to be sent anywhere. But, here, with me, you-” He faltered into silence.

“I’m glad too,” Credence said. “I know what you meant. I like it here.”

The peace of the garden surrounded them, high hedges and trees clustering its edges protectively. “Apart from Modesty, I had no one,” Credence said. “All this was for her - I had to stop it, before he got to her. Like he got to me. I don’t know that he would have, but-”

There was another silence. Mr Graves’s hand tightened momentarily over Credence’s. “And your mo- that woman. Mary Lou. Did she know?”

“She says not,” Credence said. “She knew about the other things, though. The punishments. She helped with those.”

Mr Graves nodded, an abrupt little movement. His hand on Credence’s was a strange absent weight, but a comfort. Some of the shameful fear in Credence’s chest loosened.

“I never heard of anything so terrible.” Mr Graves swallowed, audibly. “A very long time ago, I was a cop. And then after that, I was a politician, in charge of public safety,” he said. “So I should know.”

Credence looked at him in surprise. Mr Graves never spoke of what he’d done when he was alive. He saw Credence’s look, and gave a shaky kind of smile.

“You knew that, didn’t you?” he said. “Do you know what happened next?”

Credence thought about lying - the small kind which could avoid unwanted attention and uncomfortable scenes. The kind he would have used at the Church. He saw Mr Graves’ face before him, full of dread, and decided to tell the truth.

“I only know they made you leave somehow,” he said. “And then you moved here.”

Mr Graves laughed unpleasantly, and drew his hand away. He rubbed hard at his face. “I need you to understand I’m not like _him_ ,” he said. “No matter what they called me.”

A chill stole down Credence’s spine. That was unexpected. It raised a horrible possibility that he’d become so warped he would mistake safety for something quite different. 

“What did they call you?” he said, as evenly as possible, as though his heart did not pound in his ears or his stomach clench painfully with fear.

“They called me a sexual pervert. They called me a subversive, a threat to the American way of life. They said homosexuality was a disease, that I was a security risk and couldn’t be trusted.” He sighed, and slumped back in his seat. “They said if I went quietly they wouldn’t make a fuss.”

Credence gaped at him. “I had no idea,” he said. 

Mr Graves was stirred into clutching at Credence’s arm, staring imploringly into his face. “I’m not like him, I swear it,” he said. “Credence, I would _never_ -”

Credence forgot all his hesitancy about touch, all his fear and worry over it. He clutched Mr Graves back just as hard. “I know, I know,” he said. “You’re nothing like him. Nothing. I just - I didn’t know that happened. Did they really fire you for that? Was that really something they could do?”

Mr Graves hardly seemed to hear him. His words came rushing out like a confession - Credence recognised it from the his days in the Church. How, after the bad days, he would end up driven to penitence for sins committed against his own self.

“There was this boy, you see, a little older than you,” Mr Graves said. “There was nothing in it, not then anyway, but someone saw us, took a picture. It was very suggestive - the two of us in an alley. It was all they needed.” He let go of Credence’s arm and sat quietly staring at his hands laid out over his lap. He took a deep breath. “When it came to it, I couldn’t deny it. Whether they liked it or not, it had nothing to do with my work. It was none of their business.”

Neither of them spoke. Credence didn’t know what to say, and he had an inkling Mr Graves hadn’t finished yet. The worst, and most important, part of confession always came at the end.

He didn’t have to wait too long.

“I never even kissed him,” Mr Graves said, utterly still. “Never saw him again. Never saw anyone again.”

Credence remembered he still had hold of Mr Graves’ sleeve. An odd thing happened, then - he felt sadness rolling off him like fog tumbling down a hillside. It was rushed over Credence; a great overwhelming bank of loneliness. 

“And then you came here,” Credence said, and looked automatically toward the house. Overlaying the welcome safety Credence saw, was a different view. The house was a prison, and a man lived in exile there. He allowed himself no company; shut himself away, alone with his impotent rage.

Credence sought Mr Graves’ hand again. When he grasped it, he thought about Mr Graves wandering its rooms restlessly, for days on end. He thought about about Mr Graves never even kissing that long-ago boy. He thought about Mr Graves dying alone and unloved. He felt tears on his face.

“Are you crying?” Mr Graves said. He sounded a little confused, like Credence had no reason to be quite so sad. “Here.” He held out a handkerchief, but forgot Credence couldn’t take it from him. “Oh,” he said, when he remembered, and started to dab at Credence’s tears himself.

“I’m okay,” Credence said, beginning to laugh. “I just - The both of us. What a mess. What a waste of two lives.” He squirmed free of the handkerchief and tried to suppress his increasingly manic laughter by burying his face in his hands. It didn’t work.

Mr Graves grabbed hold of his shoulders and made Credence look at him. His face was uncompromisingly fierce. “Yours is not wasted,” he said. “And you’re not going to let it be. You’re going to put that man in prison and then you’re going to have a future full of promise and I’m going to be here to help you.”

Credence laughed harder, but it held a softer edge now. “You sound like Tina.”

“Well, I said she was bright,” Mr Graves said, studying him with something more like his usual sardonic expression. But when Credence shivered, he said, “Are you cold?”

“I think so,” Credence said, before he realised he had to explain. “Sometimes, when I’m upset about something, I don’t feel like I’m really here. Or that my body is my own.”

Mr Graves frowned. “Okay then, well, come here-” He held his arm out, so Credence could move closer and share his warmth, but then stopped. “If you want to, I mean. Maybe, now that you know-”

Credence ignored this speech and shuffled in. He was too tired to argue, and it was nice to lean against something solid, close his eyes, and not think very much.

“Nobody minds anymore, you know,” he said, after a few minutes had passed. “About you being gay. About anyone being gay. It doesn’t really matter.” He opened his eyes and looked up at Mr Graves. “I don’t know if knowing that makes it better or worse, now.”

They shared a long glance. Mr Graves searched in his waistcoat pocket, somewhere below the jut of Credence’s chin. “Neither do I,” he said. “But I do know it’s time for a cigarette.”

Credence smiled faintly, and closed his eyes again. Things were returning to normal. He was aware of his body warming, and both of them were cocooned in a swirling, drifting haze of smoke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The ‘lavender scare’ which lost Graves his job was a real thing ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lavender_scare)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to draw everyone's attention to that “tearjerker” tag up there, in case it's been missed - this is where it really kicks in *hands out blankets and tea*
> 
> (If you're the sensitive sort and not sure, don't worry, I don't spring any nasty surprises on you and you'll get plenty of warning for ~sadness~ in case you need to nope out)
> 
> Yikes here we go, monogrammed handkerchiefs at the ready :0

Tina’s car had heating vents which rattled noisily and blasted warm air onto their laps. A half-eaten pretzel poked out of a paper bag on the backseat. 

“Breakfast,” she said, when she noticed him looking. “Didn’t get time to finish it. Got another one here if you want it?”

Credence shook his head. “Thank you, but I already ate.” Not much, maybe, but he’d managed something. Mr Graves had raised an eyebrow at his untouched cereal; Credence had chosen to ignore him.

Traffic was favourable and the ride to Ms Picquery’s office wasn’t long; Credence regretted having to step out onto the cold damp parking lot. Weathered asphalt crunched under his shoes as Tina locked the car. He could have happily spent all day driving about, scenery reeling by on the other side of the glass.

They passed the short wait for Credence’s appointment in the company of a tall rubber plant and a pile of glossily-bland magazines which neither of them looked at. Instead, Tina rummaged through her purse for something she couldn’t seem to locate, and Credence studied the carpet. After about ten minutes, Ms Picquery’s secretary called them in.

Ms Piquery was the most self-possessed person Credence had ever met. She wasn’t warm and friendly like Tina; she didn’t smile much and she didn’t treat him like he was made of china. He appreciated this a great deal.

Today was their last meeting, and more of a formality than anything else. She asked how he was feeling and talked him again through what he should expect. He nodded seriously; he’d heard it all before but that didn’t matter. She reminded him to speak clearly and calmly: a few tears were fine, she said, but mumbling would help no one if the jury could not hear him. Tina winced a little at this, but Credence didn’t. He had much to learn from Ms Picquery. She was determined to win. So was Credence.

When they parted, she shook his hand. The next he saw her, it would be in court.

After that, Tina took him for lunch. She chose a different place this time, one a little distance from Ms Piquery’s office. It offered things like matcha pancakes and glazed pork lollipops. The two servers were his age and had matching black aprons and tattooed forearms. Credence squashed down a nervous giggle: Mr Graves would have hated it.

He ordered a plain burger and fries - the menu called it _The Puritan_ \- and didn’t smile back when their server made a suggestive joke about his “classic” tastes. 

Even when the food came, conversation was not easy. The consciousness of events rushing to close weighed heavily upon their table. Tina tried hard to distract him with entertaining stories. Credence appreciated her efforts but felt guilty for being such poor company. Between weak smiles, he picked at his fries and looked out the window to the cemetery opposite.

There were two stone pillars either side of the entrance and fancy wrought-iron gates pulled wide open. Beyond them, smooth lawns rolled between mature spreading trees, studded with stubby grey headstones. It had an older air than the “Est. 1947” plaques screwed onto the pillars suggested. 

When Tina paid the bill and gathered up her coat and purse, Credence explained he’d get the bus home later. “I’d like to walk a bit first,” he said. “On my own, if that’s okay.”

*

He got home around mid-afternoon. Mr Graves was in the entryway almost as soon as Credence closed the front door behind him.

“It went fine,” Credence said, in response to his worried look. “I went for a walk, after. Sorry.”

Mr Graves followed him into the kitchen, and watched Credence fill up the kettle. “It went so well that you had to go for a walk?”

Credence paused. “Tina took me for lunch,” he said. “There was a cemetery opposite. I thought, maybe… I thought maybe I’d find you there.”

“Oh,” said Mr Graves. Behind him, Credence heard the complaining creak of a chair as it was sat on a little too heavily. He filled in the resulting silence by preparing his tea. When it was done, he joined Mr Graves at the table.

“And did you?” Mr Graves prompted.

“No,” said Credence. “No Graveses on record. I asked at the office.”

“They probably put me in the family plot,” said Mr Graves. “It’s out of town, towards Ellington. Can I ask why?”

Credence shrugged. “I just wanted to know if you’d been buried there,” he said. “I would’ve wondered about it for days, otherwise.”

Mr Graves lit a thoughtful cigarette. Both of them watched its smoke licking across the back of his fingers. “If there’s anything you want to ask me, Credence,” he said, after a moment. “You can.”

Credence eyed him over the rim of his cup. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said. “There’s stuff neither of us want to talk about - not more than we have to.”

“You want to know how I died, is that it?”

Credence froze, eyes wide with guilt, and Mr Graves exclaimed, “God, did they make it sound like it was self-inflicted? _Disgraced Public Figure Commits Suicide At Home_. Vultures, the lot of them.” 

He stubbed out his cigarette angrily. Abandoned, it grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared. Mr Graves lit up another.

“Not that it wasn’t _not_ self-inflicted, I suppose,” he said, billowing fresh smoke across the table. “I didn’t handle things very well.”

“The report I read said it was accidental death,” said Credence. “That was all.”

Mr Graves gave a displeased _hmph._ “It’s the same thing - that’s what they say when they either can’t prove it or they’re too delicate to say what they really mean.” He exhaled and inhaled sharply, then pointed out the open door. “It happened there. Fell down the stairs and broke my neck. Very undignified. Quite boring, too.” He took another long pull; shrugged dismissively. “I admit I might’ve had too much to drink.”

Credence barely heard him. He was twisted round, horrified, staring at the cracked tile at the bottom of the stairs - the one he’d found so friendly when he’d moved in. Then he stared back at Mr Graves, still horrified.

Mr Graves laughed at his shock. “You knew I died in the house,” he said. “It had to have happened _somewhere_.”

“I didn’t like to think about it,” Credence said, a little stiffly. Perhaps it made sense that, after all that time, Mr Graves could find his own death to be a laughing matter. But it didn’t mean Credence had to.

Mr Graves leaned across the table and patted his arm. “If I hadn’t have, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now,” he said, like it was the most natural thing on earth that they were. “I wouldn’t even be an old man, now. I’d just be dead somewhere else.”

Credence put his cup down and traced its rim with his thumb. “You could have had a happier life, though,” he said. “Seen all the changes in the world. Maybe even found someone to be with.”

There was a short silence. Mr Graves withdrew his hand from Credence’s arm. “I wouldn’t have met you, then, would I?” he said.

Neither of them could think of anything else to say, after that.

*

The morning of Credence’s appearance in court rolled around quickly. He kept strictly to his routine - rising, eating, and dressing at his usual times. Mr Graves hovered only a little. Credence pretended not to notice.

He had a suit to wear; Tina had helped him find it. They’d had trouble getting the fit right - the jackets were either too short in the arms or too baggy around the shoulders. The pants were as bad. The one they’d settled for was a compromise between the two but it didn’t really matter - Credence knew he wasn’t ever going to wear it again, once it was all over.

When he finally went downstairs, Mr Graves was pacing the hall. He looked Credence up and down, and nodded approvingly. 

“Not bad,” he said, smoothing his palms over the padded shoulders. “It sits quite well.”

“It’s okay,” Credence said. “I’m looking forward to taking it off, though. After.”

Mr Graves’ fingers fastened round his biceps and squeezed. He looked Credence right in the eye and said, “You’re going to do fine, I know it. There’s steel in you, Credence. It’ll see you through.”

Credence opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. Instead, they just looked at each other for a long moment. Mr Graves’ hands were very warm even through his jacket.

When he did find his voice, Credence heard himself say: “Tina will be here soon.”

He wished very much he could ask Mr Graves to come with him. He wouldn’t have minded seeing his face in the gallery; maybe it would make him braver than he really was.

There was a knock at the door. Mr Graves nodded once, and let him go. The last Credence saw of him was his hand raised in farewell and his silent retreat up the stairs. 

*

Tina drove him home. Both her and Ms Picquery said it had gone well, and Credence had no choice but to believe them. They were more experienced in these situations, after all.

He had been called in the afternoon, after what seemed like a very long wait. Answering the questions had been easier than he’d expected; all he had to tell was the truth and he found it was ready to burst from him in fountains. He didn’t want to keep those secrets anymore. He wanted to be free.

Ms Picquery had said there was a chance he’d be called back, but only a slim one. There were plenty of other victims of the Church, many of whom Credence had never met. And plenty of other, lesser, charges too: fraud, embezzlement, misuse of charity funds. So much to take up the court’s time.

Mary Lou was not present that day; her plea had remained at guilty and she was not required as a witness. Credence was glad - she had asked to see him once, in prison, and he had refused. Her self-pitying remorse was awful to him - he had no energy left to waste on her, not anymore.

The biggest surprise was how small and pathetic Father Grindelwald had looked: shiny and pasty and puffy under the fluorescent lights. Not that he seemed to realise it himself. He was full of his usual cold arrogance but there in the dock, rather than in the pulpit, it made him seem despotic, almost deranged. Strangely, it gave Credence hope. People would see through to the truth of him, he thought. Ugly and selfishly banal, papered thinly over with bogus morality.

The car pulled up the drive, and Tina killed the engine. They sat quietly, listening to its cooling ticks. 

“Thank you,” Credence said. “I don’t think I could have done any of this without you. And I know you’re worrying about me, but I feel fine. Really. I’m just tired.”

She squeezed his hand; hers was cold, so he squeezed it back. 

“I just want to get some rest,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

She nodded. He opened the car door and she started the engine. “Or sooner, if you need me,” she called out.

He waved her off before going inside.

Without thinking, his feet took him right through the house and into the yard. Mr Graves was a dim shadow under the yew, smoke weaving through its needles. Credence smiled; he couldn’t help it.

Mr Graves smiled back. They didn’t speak. Instead, he held something out to him; Credence took it as he sat down. It was the pack of cigarettes he’d bought. There were still only two missing and his lighter was pushed into the gap they’d left.

Mr Graves watched Credence light one, and then he watched him smoke it. Credence coughed a little, but only at first.

Mr Graves remained silent until it was finished. “You did good today. I know it as well as if I’d been there myself.” A sudden breeze caught the branches above their heads and shook them. Mr Graves waited for quiet to fall again before he said: “I’m proud of you.”

Credence sat very still. Mr Graves’ words, though softly-spoken, swelled in the falling dusk. They seemed to mingle with the smoke hazing his vision. Credence breathed it all in, deeply.

“I would’ve been there if I could,” said Mr Graves.

Credence turned to him. He looked tired. Could a ghost be tired?

“I know,” said Credence. “But it was nice knowing you were going to be here, waiting for me, when I got home.” 

*

Credence’s calm lasted until he lay down and closed his eyes. Then he couldn’t settle. The day buzzed around in his head; all the questions, and the quizzical looks he’d received. All the words he’d heard spoken aloud, all the words he’d had to say himself: frightened, traumatised, assaulted. Molested. He’d had to say that one a lot.

He stayed obediently in bed, searching for sleep, until he realised it wasn’t coming. He got up and went downstairs instead.

Mr Graves was in his armchair, book abandoned on the floor. A cigarette glowed between his fingers while he stared into the empty fireplace. When he heard Credence, he turned and frowned.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Credence said. “Got tired of trying.”

“Want to talk about it?” Mr Graves asked. He flicked the butt into the grate but it vanished before it could reach the fake coals. 

Credence folded himself onto the couch with a blanket. “Not really,” he said. “I’m tired of thinking and talking too.”

He had an idea he might sit up and read with Mr Graves - maybe he’d fall asleep where he was, without any effort. Mr Graves nodded in understanding, and left him to his book without more questions. But Credence found the book couldn’t hold his attention and ended up putting it down again almost immediately. The sight of it irritated him; what use was it if it couldn’t divert his thoughts?

The routine he’d so carefully created was crumbling; what if he couldn’t get it back? The itching-pricking under his skin; the restless turns of his mind - he thought he’d left those behind, but they were still there. Not gone, just waiting.

“What about some background noise?” Mr Graves asked. Credence glanced at him; he’d been watching his discomfort, then. “The television? You don’t have it on much.”

Credence shuddered and shook his head: everything was too close to the surface. He fought a desire to simply vanish, like one of Mr Graves’ cigarettes. He rubbed his temples and found his voice - Mr Graves was waiting for an answer.

“It’s not too bad if I’m watching something,” he said. “You know, concentrating. But I can’t have it on in the background. Bad associations.”

Though he must have understood what Credence meant, Mr Graves didn’t show it on his face. He did pause, however. Not for the first time, Credence wished he could be more normal, someone who was easy to be around. Someone who might make Mr Graves laugh, maybe.

“What about the radio?” Mr Graves said, with sudden decisiveness. He clicked his fingers; a tinny warble could be heard coming from upstairs. “Especially from my era. Can’t have any bad associations with that.”

It grew louder and somehow closer, like the sound came from the walls of the house; a soft and gentle glow of music. Credence was astonished. “Have you always been able to do that?”

Mr Graves shrugged. “Only just occurred to me to do it. Pretty impressive, though, don’t you think?” He got up and strolled about the room, hands in his pockets. With a wry smile, he asked, “Care to dance?”

An unusual shame gripped Credence. “I don’t know how,” he said. How stupid, he thought. And how typical, too. All because of a silly joke which he knew was supposed to be distracting.

Mr Graves came over, crouching to catch Credence’s gaze. “It’s not difficult,” he said, much too kindly. “And neither is it compulsory.”

Credence bit his lip; there were tears crawling up his throat, starting to choke him. “I don’t know how to do anything normal.” It came out in a whisper. “I’m afraid I’ll never know.”

For once, Mr Graves seemed at a loss. He remained knelt by the couch; something had stalled in his face. A horrible voice in Credence’s mind told him he’d finally seen how much trouble Credence was, and now he wouldn’t bother with him anymore.

But Mr Graves rose to sit next to Credence. “Let’s just both sit here and listen,” he said. “We can do that instead.”

Credence glanced at his face. It was soft, maybe a little concerned. The hands in his lap were tan, and looked warm and strong. Good hands, Credence thought. Kind hands. The voice in his head had been wrong; it lied. He knew Mr Graves wouldn’t desert him.

He reached across and slid his hand into Mr Graves’. Mr Graves gave him a curious glance but did not let go.

*

Credence woke on the couch, with his legs tangled in the blanket and a crick in his neck. The clock on the mantlepiece said it was past noon.

He struggled upright. Mr Graves was nowhere to be seen but the scent of cigarettes hung faintly in the air.

He scrubbed at his eyes a few times and, with the blanket pulled round his shoulders, shuffled into the kitchen. It might be nearly lunch, but he had to try get the day back into a recognisable shape. Breakfast now, a light lunch in a couple of hours, then dinner as usual. He began laying out bowls and plates, and reached automatically for the coffee.

Mr Graves’ absence seemed suddenly tangible, even though he couldn’t be far. Maybe he should go look for him.

The door to the yard opened and closed. Cold fresh air drifted in, followed by light footsteps. Relief came swiftly with them.

“Do you want coffee?” Credence called. 

Mr Graves poked his head round the door. “You’re awake then.”

He silently took in the kitchen scene; Credence, draped in a blanket, coffee in one hand and cereal box in the other. Credence remembered he usually brushed his hair before coming down to breakfast. It would be sticking up at the back but he didn’t any hands free to smooth it.

“Why not,” said Mr Graves.

They sat opposite each other as they always did, but Credence couldn’t shake the feeling something was different. Mr Graves’ quiet had an unusual quality, and he played tricks with his cigarettes instead of smoking them. He passed one over the backs of his fingers like it was moving on its own, then made it disappear in one hand and reappear in the other. The last was done with a flourish, for Credence’s benefit.

“Bar room magic,” he said, lighting it at last. “Learned them when I was an officer. Good for when you need to belong in the wrong kinds of places.”

Credence smiled. “I didn’t know you could do magic,” he said. “Can you do anything else?”

“Not much more,” Mr Graves said. “It would be a useful thing, I imagine, to be able to do real magic. I wonder how many of our problems we could solve then.”

Credence crunched his cereal in silence. Privately he wondered if they’d have different kinds of problems, if magic were real.

“Sorry,” Mr Graves said. “I seem to be a little out of sorts today.”

“That’s my fault,” Credence said. “I interrupted your evening, and now our morning is happening in the afternoon.” He sipped his tea. “What do you do at night, normally? When I’m asleep?”

“What I was doing last night,” shrugged Mr Graves. “Sit by the fireplace, read, smoke.” 

He remembered finding Mr Graves last night, sitting by the unlit fire, not reading and not smoking. All night, every night, Credence thought with a terrible pang. “Isn’t it lonely?” he blurted out.

Mr Graves blinked at him, like he’d never considered it. “I’m not alone,” he said. “Not when you’re upstairs, safe in bed.”

Something tugged Credence onwards with strange persistence. “What about last night, when I was asleep on the couch? What did you do then?”

Mr Graves set down his coffee cup, and rubbed his chin. “I watched you sleep for a bit. I couldn’t tell if you were settled, or not, at first. I didn’t want you to wake suddenly in a strange place.” He averted his eyes from Credence’s, searched in his pocket for a cigarette. “Then I went outside,” he said. “Didn’t seem right to stay.”

“You could have,” Credence said. The odd _something_ which made him keep asking questions grew stronger; it warmed and crackled under his ribs, heated his skin. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“I know,” Mr Graves said. He passed a hand over his face. “It was better that I didn’t. 

“Why?”

Mr Graves’ expression closed; a false severity drew across it. “You can’t get used to me being here, Credence,” he said. “It won’t be forever.”

Credence went entirely still. The flush which spread over his face was a very different kind to the one which had been so pleasant only moments before. Inside him, a chill started to spread. He knew what Mr Graves was going to say next and he didn’t know how to stop him from saying it. 

Mr Graves watched him cautiously. When Credence didn’t respond, he said, with horrible inevitability: “How long do you expect the trial to last?”

Credence shut his eyes; had to clutch at the table. He knew what Mr Graves meant and, though he desperately wanted to deny it, knew he was right. If he was lucky, it would be a handful of weeks. And then it would be over, and Credence would have to leave. The Foundation would send someone else to live in Mr Graves’ house; someone else would find shelter there. Credence wouldn’t be able to anymore.

In desperation, Credence said, “I’ll find a way to come and visit you. Somehow. I must be able to.”

Mr Graves’ composure looked like it might finally crack. If anything, that made Credence’s desperation worse.

He shook his head, then bowed it to rest against his hands. “I worked it out, Credence,” he said. “The reason I’m here: it’s you. Something in you called to me - it called me back into being. But it can’t last. Even if it could- I can’t leave the house. I tried, over and over, when you were in court. All day.”

Mr Graves rubbed his eyes and took Credence’s hands in his own. “You’ve got to let me go,” he said. “Without you here, I’ll just fade again. I don’t want that. I’d rather go, like I should have done sixty-six years ago.”

There was a distant ringing in Credence’s ears; pins-and-needles in his hands and feet. This was all so much worse than he’d ever imagined - losing Mr Graves entirely, with not even the thought of him left as comfort. No longer in the house, occupying his chair or smoking under the yew-tree. Gone, where Credence could not follow.

“No,” Credence said, and that was all it took. He found himself standing, the table on its side, smashed crockery and spilled cereal beside it. “No,” he said again, or maybe he shouted it. Mr Graves just watched, unmoving, his face a mask of sorrow. 

It felt like one of his dreams; a force bigger than him, like a tidal wave of cold dark water, possessed him and took him with it. He blazed through the house, the sound of things falling, crashing, breaking in his wake. It all had to come down - better that, than lose it all and have to say goodbye. Better to break it pieces himself. Much, much better.

It was the sight of the armchair which stopped him in his tracks; and the lamp, next to it, which undid him. Once he’d harboured such fond feelings for its light; now he hardly thought of it. Because it had never really been the lamp which had stirred them, made him feel safe. It had always been Mr Graves.

He fell to knees, and sobbed into his hands. Mr Graves was right behind him, of course. He’d stood back and let Credence destroy everything in reach, and now he knelt close, hands soft and soothing on Credence’s back.

Credence turned, and seized him; sobbed into his shoulder. “It’s not fair, nothing is fair,” he cried. He didn’t care anymore, about what he must look like, how pathetic. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Mr Graves. 

“I know,” Mr Graves said. His voice was rough and jagged; his hands gentle. “I don’t want to have to leave you, either. I’d much rather stay and watch over your sleep.”

Credence cried even harder, and Mr Graves pulled him close. At least that was something, Credence thought, through his grief. At least he was wanted. Whatever happened later, that would be something to cling to.

Slowly, his anguish quietened but still Credence couldn’t let go. He was afraid; at any moment, Mr Graves might do what he said. He might leave. He might make Credence allow it somehow. “You won’t go yet, will you?” he asked; pleaded. “Please not yet?”

“No, not yet,” Mr Graves whispered. He stroked Credence’s hair, his cheek. “Not yet.”

Credence nodded. Debris was all around them; broken pottery and upended chairs. Some of the stuffing from a cushion. They stayed in the midst of it for a long time, holding each other.

*

Credence wasn’t called to the stand again; he only went back to court to hear the verdict.

The trial had lasted another three-and-a-half weeks, and the jury took four days to make their decision. There had been a lot of evidence for them to get through. Tina stood next to him, a tight grip on both his shoulder and his hand. When the list of charges and verdicts were read, she hugged him with relief.

Over her shoulder, Credence made sure he watched them take Father Grindelwald away.

“I know a celebration isn’t really what you feel like right now,” Tina said later, in the parking lot. “But how about we go do something? Anything. We can just drive around, even.”

Credence agreed. They ended up going to a drive-thru and eating burgers at the top of the old quarry. It couldn’t quite be called a beauty spot but there was something nice about the amount of sky seen from up there, and the town rolling back down the hill away from them.

“What happens now?” Credence said. “To me, I mean.”

Tina gave him a sidelong look. “We’re not going to kick you out on your ear, you know,” she said. “Ms Picquery will want to see you, to talk about your options. There’s a good case for damages.”

She poked the gherkin back into her burger and took a huge bite. Credence smiled at her; he wouldn’t see her as often, but he would still see her and that was nice to remember.

“Apart from that, it’s just like we talked about - we start to get you a normal life. Help you find a job, a place to live which is your own. We’ve got placements to help with the transition.” She chewed thoughtfully for a while, and wiped clear a patch of condensation from the windshield. “What happens next is up to you. I’m just here to help.”

“Normal life,” Credence repeated. The sky was visible again through the little window Tina had made. “I wonder what that’s like.”

If he sounded sad about it, Tina didn’t comment.

*

Every night, before he went to sleep, Credence had asked, “ _not yet?”_ until Mr Graves had sighed and held him and sworn he would not leave without saying goodbye. His insistence that his departure lay entirely in Credence’s hands went unheeded; Credence could not believe it. His worst fear was one day waking up to an empty house, with only the faintest trace of stale cigarette smoke for company.

They had talked long, the night of that terrible day; then the following day too, and every day since. Credence wanted everything there was of Mr Graves to know - his earliest memories, his first loves. The colour of his childhood bedroom. His favourite places. What he’d done in the war. There was so much, Credence soon realised it would take a lifetime to learn it all and he didn’t have that long. 

He tried to do the same for Mr Graves, but his recollections were not of the kind to give either of them pleasure. Instead, he talked about what he would do, after. He made Mr Graves promises, ones extracted in extreme and serious solemnity, or at least they were up until Mr Graves threatened to come back and haunt him if he broke them. That would make Credence laugh, and then cry again.

Mr Graves stayed with him at night, now. He sat by Credence’s bed to watch over his sleep, and Credence would clutch his hand for as long as he could. Mr Graves always slipped away, though, at a point before dawn. Credence tried to train himself to awaken, so he could ask Mr Graves to stay, but never succeeded. When he asked him why, Mr Graves answered that it was for the best; it would be easier for Credence to face the day, when it came, where he’d wake to a world he was gone from.

Credence tormented himself with stratagems for drawing out their time together; ways it could be stretched from two weeks, or even days, to three. Every day was precious, every hour. If it really was his choice, he thought, he could simply never make it. Perhaps he could persuade the Foundation to let him live here longer; he indulged in fantasies where he found a way to buy the house from them. But he learned, too late, that choices are sometimes things which happen to us, and can be made without our willing permission.

A day came, soon after the verdict, where Credence woke and knew in his heart that this was the day. He lay in bed, staring unseeing at the ceiling, and tried to convince himself otherwise. The rest of his life was a straight road ahead of him - he could see it so clearly, along with the places it would travel through. And none of them would contain Mr Graves.

The room looked the same as it had the day before - the yellow cotton curtains glowed weakly with winter sunlight, and the dull dark sheen of the wardrobe hulked by the door. The chair at his bedside still waited expectantly.

Credence covered his face with his hands, and wept.

*

When he went downstairs, one look at Mr Graves’ face was enough to confirm it; he could feel it too.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” Credence said. He was crying again, a slow sad roll of tears. “What should happen? What do we do?”

Mr Graves’ smile was broken. “Nothing, if you keep crying like that,” he said. “I’m not likely to leave you this unhappy, am I?”

Credence appreciated the attempt to be as much like his usual self as possible. But nothing was going to be the same ever again. “Don’t make me pretend,” he said. “I don’t think I can. You know I won’t be happy. Not without you.”

Mr Graves stilled, then; he ran his hands through his hair and looked at the tabletop for a long time. Credence went to his side. Mr Graves put his arms around him, pushed his head against Credence’s ribs. His weight felt so human, so natural, it seemed impossible that by tomorrow he wouldn’t be there at all. 

Credence’s hand shook when he touched his hair, and then the prickle of his cheek. He thought of all the things he might say now, to Mr Graves; the things which seemed so obvious it felt like he’d already said them. But he kept silent. Eventually, Mr Graves stirred and raised his head.

“Tonight,” he said. “Let’s try and spend today like we always do. And then… Tonight.”

Credence nodded woodenly, and went to make coffee.

*

They did exactly as Mr Graves wished. They had breakfast, and Credence went to the store. When he came back, he made tea and they worked on the crossword together. There were three clues they were stuck on. Credence couldn’t stop picturing himself finding their unfinished crossword the next morning.

After lunch, the day’s inevitable progress became harder to ignore. By the time they were preparing dinner, it was nearly unbearable.

“I don’t think I can eat anything,” Credence said, halfway through mashing a bowl of cooked potato. 

Mr Graves looked at him long and hard before speaking. “We’ll make it anyway,” he said. “You’ll need to eat later, even if you don’t feel like it. It’ll be easier for you if there’s something already made.”

Credence picked the potato-masher up again, and carried on obediently. He knew Mr Graves was right.

By unspoken agreement, they didn’t force themselves through the ritual of dinner. Instead, after Credence had tidied himself up, they went straight through into the sitting room. Credence stood awkwardly, undecided between sitting and standing. It was hard to grasp what was about to happen, even harder to still to decide how and where. 

Mr Graves clicked his fingers, and music sounded. Credence looked at him in surprise; he must have put some thought into how he wanted say goodbye.

He held his arms out to Credence. “Come here,” he said. “Surely you can’t refuse me this dance?”

Credence hugged himself, and shook his head. He didn’t speak, just put his head on Mr Graves’ shoulder and let him sway them both gently. The music wasn’t familiar to him; it was slow and sad and a man was singing about waiting for someone. Credence held on tighter; he’d wait a long time if that had been an option.

Mr Graves’ chin was somewhere near his ear. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself as if I was watching,” he said. “And that you won’t be sad for long. You’ve got a future - I want you to enjoy it.”

“I can’t promise not to be sad. You know I can’t.”

Mr Graves shifted in his grip a little, to see Credence’s face. “Don’t waste too many tears on me, Credence. Really.”

Credence squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn’t keep back his tears. “I don’t want you to go.” He pressed his face deeper in Mr Graves’ neck; his words came out muffled in his collar. “I know you have to, but I don’t want you to.”

Mr Graves’ chest hitched under his own. Credence pulled back; now both of them were crying. He touched Mr Graves’ tears; they felt wet but his fingers came back dry. 

“Kiss me?” Credence said. “Please?”

Mr Graves leant his forehead to Credence’s. He felt his warmth, so close, and the swell of his ribs. But no breath brushed across his face, and there was no heartbeat under his palm.

“Goodbye, Credence,” whispered Mr Graves, just before he pressed his lips against Credence’s own.

Credence’s eyes fluttered shut; there was a tingle of warmth, a graze of stubble. His breath caught in his throat.

When he opened his eyes again, there was nothing there. He swayed forward, chasing the vanished warmth, the scent of smoke.

“I love you,” Credence said, to the empty room. “I love you.”

*

The next day, Credence found the letter. 

He’d slept, finally, on top of Mr Graves’ old bed. His own was utterly out of the question. The empty chair was too terrible a reminder, but moving it to another room was as impossible as trying to sleep beside it.

His sheets retained a memory of cigarette smoke, one Credence was sure was not entirely imagined. He’d soon learned how quickly the house had begun to release all traces of Mr Graves. Credence never noticed how fully his presence had occupied it before; an atmosphere of tobacco and quiet protection. It had given up its guardian, just as Credence had, and with what seemed like a lot more ease.

It was early when he opened his eyes, despite the lateness of the night before. Perhaps it was his regular habits, or perhaps a part of him still hoped to hear the turn of a page downstairs, or the creak of a nearby chair. Either way, there was no consoling temporary amnesia for Credence; immediately on waking, he remembered everything he’d lost. The light in the room was dim, and so was his heart.

The first pangs of hunger pricked at his conscience. He had made a promise and already broken it; he’d eaten nothing since lunch the previous day.

Reluctantly, he stood. Mr Graves’ bed held Credence’s imprint, an absence to mirror the one he wore inside. Credence had so little left to mourn; no clothes to carry his scent, or well-used trinket to keep like an amulet. There was just Credence and the empty space lodged in his chest, shaped in Mr Graves’ image.

Before he left the room, a drawer caught his eye. It was not quite shut, a thin sliver of darkness calling for his attention. 

It was too soon, he told himself. Though Mr Graves had already been dead, and had not left behind possessions needing a respectful interval before being disturbed, it was still too soon. Credence knew he should wait before looking inside the drawer. 

But, he thought, I will not be here for much longer, either. And that open drawer seems deliberate. An invitation, even. Credence was sure Mr Graves had been a very tidy man in life, and knew he was had been, in death, a very careful ghost.

He slid it open. The letter was inside; written on thick cream paper which Credence had never seen before. It was folded in three, and his name written on the back, in lieu of an envelope.

Joy and grief seized him simultaneously. It would be futile to even attempt to stall reading it. Credence sat down on the bed, and unfolded the letter.

“ _My dearest Credence,”_ it said.

_“I have written and rewritten this letter many times. After the effort it has taken, I hope it lasts longer than I could and as long as you require it to._

_“I want it to stand as a record of what passed between us, in case you should at any point begin to doubt it. I know what doubt can be, and how insidious it is, in making us believe that our most truthful experiences are to be mistrusted and casting the secret knowledge of our hearts in shadow._

_“For I loved you, Credence. Maybe I still do, somewhere - I do not know if that’s possible, but I also do not know that it isn’t. I lived for a long time after I died, and I never knew that was possible either, until it happened to me. I loved you with more care than I believe I ever loved anything, so, if possibility permits it, wherever I am now I still carry you in my heart._

_“But do not mistake me - I am gone, and will not return. How I know this, I can’t say - you must trust me when I say that I looked and looked for another ending, for an escape from what I vainly hoped was not inevitable. It was selfish of me to do so; all love is selfish, in some shape or form. Could I have kept you safely with me, I would have. But you have a future, and mine had already passed; there was no other way. I think maybe you understand that now, or you could not have let me go._

_“As much as I (selfishly) do not want you to forget me, I also don’t want you to remember me so well you cannot admit anyone else into your heart. I am willing to share it with others, should they deserve you (though, in truth, I am not sure I was deserving either). I know you will not accept the words I am about to write: you will look disbelievingly at them and call me a romantic fool, though you will of course choose kinder words than that to describe me._

_“Those words are these: you are beautiful, Credence, and - in a future which will come sooner than you think - you will have many suitors. Choose wisely; choose someone of whom I would approve. Let them cherish you with everything they have, and let them do so in the happy knowledge they will have the rest of their lives to do so. I will envy them, from afar, and be glad to know you will be well-loved._

_“Though an accident of fate and physics brought us together - one which, by its same nature, caused us to part again - know I do not regret a single moment. You brought me great peace, in the end, and I hope I was, in some small way, able to return the favour._

_“Ever yours with deepest love,_

_“Percival Graves”_

*

A week later, Credence waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs for Tina to arrive. Beside him was the cracked tile; the last place Mr Graves had occupied in life. Ever since Credence had learned how it was made, he’d avoided it, averting his eyes when passing it by. Now, it had brought him a strange comfort. He’d lost Mr Graves’ ghost, but the man he’d been before seemed a little closer. 

His belongings were piled near the front door: one tired and bulging gym bag, and several plastic bags tied together with string.

Tina’s shadow appeared outside. He saw her raise her hand to knock.

Credence laid his hand upon the tile. “Goodbye, Mr Graves,” he said.

*

Under Credence’s bed, a locked box lived. A briefcase, really; sturdy and silver-clasped, the black leather soft and flaky with age.

Inside it was kept a collection of papers: several newspaper articles, three with photographs of a dark-haired man. One showed the outside of a house. It had wide eaves and a mailbox outside with the numbers _One-Two-Eight_ painted on it. There were objects kept with the papers, too: a packet of cigarettes (three missing, lighter pushed inside the carton), a pocket-sized book of crossword puzzles (one unfinished), a paperback copy of _The Pelican Brief_ with a page folded down.

Most importantly, pressed between two pieces of stiff card, was a letter.

There were three copies of this same letter. One was the original, written in black ink, the handwriting defined and without unnecessary ornament. Another was a photocopy. The last was copied out in a different hand, using blue ballpoint. Much care had been taken to do so accurately - the writer had printed each word, rather than letting it flow from the pen as the first author had done. The effect was halting, almost reverent.

There were digital records, too - scans and photographs. Credence was afraid that, like the letter’s writer, one day it might disappear. Nothing could be taken for granted where ghosts were concerned.

Credence had taken a journey, earlier that morning. His new place was a small apartment; there were two more below his. One belonged to Mrs Goodman, whom he’d already met, and the other to a young family, whom he hadn’t. From outside their small block, a bus had taken him the short ride into town, and another had taken him on a longer ride, this time out of town.

The place he was going was served only infrequently by buses - he’d brought lunch with him, packed neatly into his bag. When he arrived, the gates were open and the parking lot quiet. Not many visitors; most would wait until Sunday.

He’d called ahead and checked this was the place. The lady on the phone had been very kind, and given directions. The one he was looking for was in the eastern section, she’d said. If he headed for the oak standing alone near the track, and looked for a distinctively-shaped yew, he couldn’t go wrong.

Luckily, Credence knew what a yew tree looked like, though this was much bigger than he was used to. Its branches had spread a low canopy over the graves near it. He walked slowly round its trunk, until he saw the words he sought, carved into the stone: _Percival Graves 1910 - 1951._

He stepped forward to touch it. The stone was cool and rough - the yew shaded it from most of the sunlight. Credence dropped his bag, and sat on the grass. 

“Not much sun to bother you,” he smiled. “A perfect spot.”

He looked around at the other gravestones - nearly all of them were Graveses. The ones which weren’t must have been cousins or wives or married sisters.

“I should have asked you about your family when I had the chance,” Credence said, “I didn’t think about meeting them like this.” He leant back, grass tickling through his fingers. “It’s strange having to come here to visit you, as if you’re just a normal dead person.”

“You missed the sentencing,” he said. “There were some damages awarded, so I’ve got a little bit of money now. Ms Picquery has been wonderful, I think you would have liked her.” He started to unpack his bag - his sandwich was a little squashed, so he laid it on the grass. “And I have a job now, nothing much, just a few hours a week at the library.” 

Next to his sandwich, he placed a candle with a lantern and a packet of cigarettes. He lit the candle first.

“All Souls’ Day was ages ago,” he said. “But I don’t think it matters. You should be remembered, and you will be. By me.” 

He took out a cigarette - the fourth from the packet. “I’ll keep the promises I made you, though, don’t worry. Maybe I’ll share a dance with someone else one day, but this-”

He lit the cigarette, just as Mr Graves had showed him. Then he leaned back, and looked at the sky above; there were pale little clouds, high up in its fathomless blue. Credence blew out his smoke and watched it rise to join them.

“This is just for us,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it - thank you to everyone for reading! Your comments have been lovely and I’ve had a wonderful welcome into this fandom :)
> 
> Sorry for the sadfic, the other one I’m working on is much more fun and happy (and about three times as long, is why it’s taken me ages to get any fic posted) so hopefully I can make it up to you soon.
> 
> Finally, I kept the mood of this fic going in between bouts of writing by listening non-stop to Richard Hawley, particularly the _Coles Corner_ album - so if you’re looking for some 50s-inspired melancholy-romantic-masculinity to soothe you a bit, I suggest you go give it a listen.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments always appreciated, and [anyone who reblogs this post](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/post/166787549807/128-yew-tree-drive-final-chapter-now-on-ao3) on tumblr gets my undying love and gratitude <3
> 
>  ~~[Here I am on tumblr.](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com)~~ I’ve left tumblr due to their policy update of December 2018 and now you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/weconqueratdawn), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/weconqueratdawn) and [dreamwidth](https://weconqueratdawn.dreamwidth.org/).


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